Moli stepped out of the tower and relayed what Cen Qing had said.

Given his previous experience, Fran was already prepared for the fact that he would not see the prince inside the tower on this visit; he was not particularly surprised, nor did he feel the slightest bit of resentment.

“A gift for Your Majesty.”

He lifted the crystal box he carried with him and solemnly handed it to Moli.

The box was square and crystal-clear.

The lid was carved with two giant owls, one on the left and one on the right, guarding a gemstone tree.

The tree’s crown branched out in countless directions, its intricate grain rendered with lifelike precision. Tiny crystals were embedded at the tips of the branches, serving as leaves and scattering flecks of silver light.

Setting aside the gift within, the box itself was a rare treasure.

The crystal box is completely transparent, yet its interior is shrouded in a thin mist, a result of the Witch King’s power. Without opening the lid, it is difficult to guess what exactly lies within.

Moli took the crystal box and handed over the wooden box containing the letter.

The box looked familiar—its golden hue and patterns seemed vaguely recognizable.

As expected, it was another letter box.

Fran held the wooden box in his hands and looked up toward the heights.

As far as the eye could see, he could not pinpoint the exact room where Cen Qing was located, nor could he determine his precise whereabouts.

His curiosity about Cen Qing grew, leading him to form a theory: this vampire prince was either a lover of literature and poetry or a genius. Unable to change his circumstances, he used clever tactics to please His Majesty, laying the groundwork for his future and building a foundation for what was to come.

Clever, mysterious, handsome, unconstrained by dogma, and acting with clear purpose—he is quite suited to His Majesty.

This alliance between the two kingdoms might hold even more surprises.

Fran thought to himself.

After exchanging gifts, Fran had no intention of lingering. He leapt onto the giant owl and settled onto its broad back.

The giant owl spread its wings, let out a shrill cry, and soared into the sky.

Under Fran’s deliberate guidance, the giant owl circled the Black Tower once, then soared over the magnificent city, soaring past the towering city walls, slicing through the dark clouds like a blade before flapping its wings and flying off into the distance.

The giant owl’s speed was astonishing; in the blink of an eye, it vanished from sight.

At that moment, news had just reached Golden Rock Fortress.

Upon learning of the wraith’s appearance before the Black Tower, Gorod was greatly startled. He hastily suspended the banquet and dispatched messengers from the royal palace.

The carriage left the royal palace, its occupants urging the driver on repeatedly. The coachman lashed the reins with all his might; the wheels skimmed the ground at breakneck speed, nearly sending sparks flying along the way.

The carriage arrived at its destination, only to find the place deserted; neither the wraito nor his giant owl could be found anywhere before the Black Tower.

Viscount Ruskin stepped out of the carriage, his gaze sweeping the area suspiciously.

He looked at the maidservant before the tower, then cast a glance at the goblins bustling about, his demeanor haughty as he condescended to ask, “Why has the wraith come here, and where is he now? ”

Ruskin was a newly ennobled nobleman.

His family had aligned themselves with Foreign Minister Zax, rising to prominence when Zuona became queen, and had secured the title of viscount through flattery and sycophancy. He himself held a position at court, specializing in delivering messages for the king and occasionally gathering intelligence on the nobility.

His faction was naturally at odds with Cen Qing, and it had been decided from the very beginning that they were enemies, not friends.

“I am under no obligation to answer your questions.” Moli glanced at him and casually uttered the words, not sparing him another look.

Ignoring Ruskin’s sudden change of expression, the thorn maids turned away with the gifts, their figures disappearing behind the Black Tower’s gate.

The goblins had no intention of paying him any mind either.

Green figures came and went through the Black Tower’s gates, meticulously checking off a list as they sorted and loaded supplies onto the carts.

A steady stream of groups flowed through the area; the goblins, carrying loads on their shoulders and in their hands, were swamped with work. There was no chaos in the process, and their pace remained consistent, like an oversized colony of ants.

Several Black Knights rode up on horseback.

Judging by their direction, they had come from the stables.

The knights dismounted at the foot of the steps, pulled sugar cubes from their pockets, and skillfully fed them to their warhorses.

This was a technique taught by Pinault, and it was extremely effective on the hot-tempered plain warhorses.

In the face of sweet sugar cubes, even the proudest warhorse would lower its head, allowing the Black Knights to saddle it and groom its mane. At most, it might shake its neck when uncomfortable or stamp its front hooves and snort a few times.

Everyone went about their business, each doing their own thing. His Lordship the Viscount was completely ignored on the spot, utterly overlooked.

Realizing his predicament, Ruskin was overcome with shame and indignation, his otherwise handsome face contorting with fury.

“I am His Majesty’s envoy; you must answer my questions!” He took a step forward, reaching out to grab the maid who had not yet left, his tone vicious. “Is it the First Prince who ordered you to act this way, to defy the King’s authority?!”

The one he had grabbed was Juandan. The maid is most skilled in herbal medicine. Clatter. The bag in Juandan’s hand fell to the ground, its opening spilling out the carefully prepared herbs across the floor. 

These were the medicinal ingredients she had spent countless nights meticulously selecting from hundreds of herbs, specifically prepared for His Highness the Prince!

Staring at the mess on the ground, Juandan’s pupils suddenly darkened. Without warning, black mist rose from beneath her feet. She spun around at an incredible speed, twisting her upper body nearly ninety degrees as she reached out with one hand to grab Ruskin by the throat. Her fingernails had grown sharp, and a dark red hue spread from their tips inward.

This was the poison of the thorns.

Once the skin was cut and the toxin entered the bloodstream, the wound would fester endlessly, causing unending agony.

Sensing the danger, Ruskin quickly retreated, drawing his sword with a swift motion, intending to sever Juandan’s right hand.

The moment the blade left its sheath, a sudden gust of wind struck from behind, and a cold touch pressed against the right side of his neck, freezing his movements.

Immediately afterward, a chilling voice rang in his ear, sending a cold sweat breaking out on his skin: “My Lord Viscount, if you wish to keep your fine head, you’d best not make any rash moves.”

The blade was sharp, the aura icy; the pressure felt tangible.

Ruskin desperately wanted to play the hero, but reason pulled him back to reality, warning him not to act on impulse.

He maintained the posture of his left hand gripping the scabbard while his right hand drew the sword, glancing sideways behind him. His gaze fell upon a handsome face—Mino, the captain of the Black Knights.

At that moment, Mino’s sword was pressed against his neck; it wouldn’t take much force—just a slight downward pressure—to slit his throat.

“I am His Majesty’s envoy, here on a mission; you should not be so rude,” Ruskin emphasized his status, feigning strength, though he was all bark and no bite.

Mino snorted derisively, mocking the other man’s naivety.

He deliberately drawled out his words, speaking with a tone designed to wear down one’s will: “I am a knight of His Royal Highness the Prince, loyal only to my master. I imagine you have heard of the Black Knights’ methods. ”

“So, is all this by the Prince’s command?” Ruskin asked, his voice taut.

“Put away your filthy thoughts. Do not attempt to set verbal traps, nor try to frame His Highness the Prince. Otherwise, the consequences will be more than you can bear.” 

Mino moved closer to Ruskin, his voice as cold and smooth as a venomous snake flicking its tongue. “Not only will I kill you, but I will annihilate your family, forcing you to regret your actions in agony. I swear by the name of the Black Knight—I will never go back on my word.”

This was a threat—a blatant, unadulterated threat—leaving no room for negotiation.

Ruskin’s heart pounded wildly, and rage flared within him.

Rage overwhelmed his reason; he could bear it no longer and was about to strike back regardless of the consequences when Moli suddenly returned.

She lifted the hem of her skirt as she descended the steps, blocking Juandan, who was still poised to attack, while signaling to Mino that killing Ruskin would serve no purpose for His Royal Highness.

“The diplomatic mission is about to depart,” she said.

There was no need to complicate matters at this juncture; it was best to maintain a semblance of peace.

If that was the case at the Black Tower, it was surely the same at the palace.

“Viscount Ruskin.” Moli nodded at him; her attitude was rather indifferent, but one could not nitpick and claim she lacked respect for the nobility.

The sword at her neck moved away, and the sense of pressure vanished.

Ruskin suppressed the urge to touch his neck and looked up at the maid across from him, his tone as restrained as possible: “His Majesty did not send me here to provoke you, but specifically to understand the intent behind the wraith’s visit.”

A flash of surprise crossed Moli’s eyes, and she finally scrutinized him seriously.

Recalling Cen Qing’s instructions, she did not hide the truth: “He has come by order of the lord of the snow domain to present a gift to His Highness the Prince.”

Ruskin froze in place.

A gift?

The lord of the snow domain?

For the First Prince?

“Is what you say true?” He was so shocked that he asked instinctively.

“I have no reason to lie about this,” Moli said, lifting her chin with an unquestionable tone. “Lies are easily exposed, especially when it comes to the lord of the snow domain, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ruskin was no fool.

He understood the significance of this gift, and he knew all too well what impact the news would have on the Royal Capital once it spread.

He could not stay any longer; he had to return to the palace immediately to report the entire matter to His Majesty the King.

“Please wait, Your Viscountship.” Seeing that Ruskin was about to leave, Moli called out to him, “His Highness wishes for you to convey two matters to His Majesty the King.”

“What are they?” Ruskin halted in his tracks.

“His Highness made a promise earlier, and it should be fulfilled as soon as possible. The letter of appointment for the Thousand Lakes Territory, along with a corrected map bearing His Majesty’s seal. The one sent previously contained errors and differed significantly from the historical records.” Moli was blunt, exposing Gorod’s hidden, sinister motives. “Additionally, the servants His Majesty promised to His Royal Highness the Prince should be assembled before departure.”

Cen Qing’s request was reasonable; Ruskin had no reason to refuse.

He nodded absently, then turned on his heel and climbed back into the carriage he had arrived in, accelerating back toward the palace.

Watching him leave, Moli was about to enter the tower gate when she was suddenly called back by the Black Knight.

“What is it?” She stopped in her tracks, standing two steps higher than the Black Knight so she could look him straight in the eye.

“What did the lord of the snow domain send to His Royal Highness?” Mino spoke on behalf of the group, his expression and voice brimming with curiosity—a stark contrast to the murderous intent he’d displayed just minutes earlier.

“A ring.” Moli didn’t hide it.

“A ring?” The Black Knights gasped in surprise.

“It’s engraved with the Wraith King’s totem.” Moli dropped another bombshell, leaving the Black Knights reeling.

A ring engraved with a racial totem, specially sent by the Wraith King—anyone could guess the symbolic significance of this gift.

Amid the Black Knights’ gasps, the thorn maids turned gracefully and walked away, their figures disappearing behind the Black Tower’s gates.

This time, no one called out to her.

Mino and the others watched her leave, then exchanged glances and quickly discussed the matter.

“The Wraith King—the infamous Iron-Blooded Tyrant. I never would have imagined it.”

“Could it be that we’ve been exiled for too long?”

“Perhaps we’ll find the answer once we enter the Snow Domain.”

“I hope so.”

“Perhaps we’ve all been mistaken all along.” Ribella leaned against her horse, chewing on a piece of licorice she’d begged from Juandan.

“Mistaken?” The other Black Knights looked at her, their eyes filled with confusion.

Ribella pulled the licorice out, rolling it between her fingertips with a meaningful smile. “His Highness’s marriage this time may well exceed everyone’s imagination.”

Inside the Black Tower, Moli returned to the room where Cen Qing was staying.

As she pushed open the door, she happened to catch Cen Qing stepping away from the windowsill and walking back to the chair near the fireplace.

An exquisite crystal box lay open on the table, its interior completely empty. The ring inside was in Cen Qing’s hand as he held it up to the light for a closer look.

The ring was a bright silver, its surface intricately carved. A giant owl with outstretched wings was etched along the outer edge of the band, its eyes set with gemstones that shimmered with a color as deep as the night.

Cen Qing was very fond of this gift.

Whether for the materials, the craftsmanship, or its symbolic meaning.

Most importantly, the impact it would have.

“Master.” Moli stepped forward, unfolded the coat lying nearby, and carefully draped it over Cen Qing. “You should take care to stay warm.”

“It’s fine,” Cen Qing said, though he did not refuse the maid’s kindness.

He sat back down in his chair. The snow leopard, now a full size larger, circled around his feet and lay down beside his legs. Unlike its previous defiant attitude, it had become quite docile.

It wasn’t a change in personality; it was simply bowing to the lure of food.

Cen Qing didn’t put the ring away; he slipped it directly onto his own finger.

He tried it on his little finger, but it didn’t fit. His index finger and thumb were also a bit too big; it felt awkward on either.

The ring finger was just right.

Perhaps it was fate?

Cen Qing’s eyes flickered slightly as he let the cool ring slide over his fingertip. It glided effortlessly down his finger, coming to rest just behind the knuckle—a perfect fit, as if made just for him.

Cen Qing raised his hand, gazed at the pattern on the ring’s surface, and smiled silently.

“His Majesty the King is going to have a real headache.”

It wasn’t a guess—it was a certainty.

Gorod had tried to strip Cen Qing of everything, squeezing out his last shred of value, only to end up shooting himself in the foot—Cen Qing had turned the tables on him by using the marriage alliance to his advantage.

The rift had already been opened when he demanded the return of part of his inheritance.

With this gift, Gorod would have to seriously consider Cen Qing’s earlier words and face the threat he might pose.

“It is difficult to please a tyrant, but all too easy to anger him. Likewise, if he takes a liking to me, history is not without precedent for how a tyrant might indulge his favorite concubine.” Cen Qing curled his fingers; the reflection from the ring’s setting caught his eye, glinting coldly in the darkness. “I hope our Majesty is wise enough not to let alcohol cloud his judgment and commit irrational acts.”

“Your Highness, be wary of him lashing out in desperation,” Moli warned earnestly. 

“The diplomatic mission is about to depart, and as things stand, he has no one to replace me. Unless he wishes to abandon the alliance and sabotage this marriage, he won’t take the risk.” Cen Qing leaned back in her chair, reached across the table with one hand to close the crystal ring box, and ran his fingertip over the pattern on the lid, feeling the subtle differences as her mood lifted.

“I am confident he will do as I wish.”

The outcome was exactly as Cen Qing had anticipated. Ruskin returned to the palace, reported the Wraith King’s intentions truthfully, and conveyed Cen Qing’s demands. Gorod flew into a rage, erupting in fury on the spot.

“Damn it, does he think I’m powerless against him?!”

Shoving the beauty in his arms aside, Gorod smashed a wine glass and paced back and forth before his throne, his aura menacing, like a caged beast. In fact, he truly was powerless against Cen Qing. He suddenly realized that the situation was spiraling out of control, like a snowball gathering momentum.

He couldn’t do anything to Cen Qing—he couldn’t imprison him, much less kill him. Unless he was willing to abandon the alliance, his son was bound to act with impunity. Replace the betrothed?

Setting aside the lack of a suitable candidate, the mere fact that the Wraith King had sent a gift made the idea a pipe dream. 

“What a fine son I have!”

Gorod stopped pacing and turned his head toward the throne. A sinister gaze traced the ancient carvings on the throne, and the image of Cen Qing surfaced in his mind, overlapping for a moment with that of his late wife. He clenched his fists tightly, his sharp nails digging into his palms, triggering a sharp sting.

“You’re dead! You are already dead! I am the true ruler of this kingdom! I am the king!”

Gorod’s voice rose from a low growl to a roar. His mistress cowered behind the throne, staring at him in terror, her arms wrapped around herself as she trembled uncontrollably.

Ruskin instinctively stepped back; the sound startled Gorod, and as the crimson eyes turned toward him, his legs gave way, and he collapsed to the floor.

“Tell me! Tell me that I am the ruler of this nation!” Gorod was consumed by an inexplicable fury; his massive hand seized Ruskin by the collar with enough force to snap his neck.

“Y-yes, Your Majesty, you are—you are the ruler!” Ruskin managed to utter, struggling in agony on the brink of death.

The grip suddenly vanished.

The moment his collar was released, he was desperate to flee.

But he could not.

He could only carefully crawl to his feet and stand there, trembling. Hunching over in fear, he glanced up at the throne, wary that Gorod might strike again.

Fortunately, Gorod did not continue his rampage.

He turned and sat back down on the throne, his arms resting on the armrests, his hands hanging loosely. Drops of blood trickled slowly past his fingertips, staining the gemstones inlaid on the throne.

After a long mental struggle, he finally spoke: “I will grant his request. Send word to Zax to select slaves for the First Prince.”

“As you command, Your Majesty.” Upon receiving the order, Ruskin felt as if he’d been granted a pardon. Without a moment’s hesitation, he left the hall as quickly as possible, entering the corridor beyond the door as if fleeing a raging flood or a ferocious beast.

Gorod sat on the throne as his lover cautiously approached, obediently leaning against his thigh.

His Majesty remained silent.

He had once again fallen into deep thought, his crimson eyes fixed on the void, the depths of his gaze surging with boundless malice, only to be forced to extinguish it in the next instant.

A large hand gripped the armrest of the chair, fingers clenched tightly, sharp nails leaving clear, jagged, and deep scratches on the metal, just like his current state of mind—dark, tyrannical, with rage having nowhere to vent.

He had lost.

He had lost to his son.

Cen Qing demanded more than just maps and slaves; he was issuing a serious warning that any attempt to take everything from him would invite retribution, sooner or later.

Jewels, territories, his right to the throne.

At that moment, Gorod finally realized with crystal clarity that sending Cen Qing away had been an absolutely terrible idea.

Yet the die was cast; there was no turning back.

No matter what lay ahead, he would have to bear it, swallowing this bitter pill alone.